


Battle of Angels

by gloriousmonsters



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Battle, I slipped and wrote a darkish Eönwë, M/M, War of Wrath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 09:13:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloriousmonsters/pseuds/gloriousmonsters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two old friends meet in the War of Wrath, with no friendship between them any longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battle of Angels

The war was consuming the land, earth cracking under the weight of bodies and the force of blows from creatures far stronger than elf or orc.   
  
The army like a wave advancing in from the sea was, on the whole, white and gold and silver bright (the light of Valinor in eyes and hair and shining skin) and the dark forces they met, crashed over and trampled were all dark, mottled green and black-red char of flames over a frame of flesh and sable or rusted-dull armor.   
  
But in the midst of darkness, a white-and-gold figure far ahead of the others plunged, and a darker and burnished gold seemed to flame within the darkness as a black helm was struck to the ground, the hair of the one that had been wearing it spilling free.   
  
Eonwe, herald of the Valar, and Sauron, captain of Melkor, faced each other upon the field; and if those who looked up at them, as the battle passed about their still forms (for they chose to be great, in this moment, like tall trees above the forces they commanded) thought their faces were grave and still, perhaps it is only that the mortal can never fully comprehend the divine.   
  
Sauron could read his former friend’s face; the slightest of ripples over it, the twitch of mouth and narrowing of eye that denoted pain and anger and uncertainty, and he smiled, growing a little more confident as he recovered from the blow.   
  
“Brother,” Eonwe said, his voice low, but cutting through the battle-noise with its clarity.   
  
Sauron raised his head proudly, firelight eyes locked on Eonwe. “No longer, Manwe’s thrall.”  
  
Eonwe’s brows knit; not rage, not yet, but hinting at it, and at the sight Sauron’s eyes flared triumphant.   
  
“I -” he began, but Sauron did not let him finish; black met white as he surged forward, form shifting like smoke as he attempted to slither into the cracks in Eonwe’s armor.   
  
Eonwe closed his eyes and faded into pure air; the warring forces swayed, almost stilling for a moment at the sight of their two commanders vanishing. Then they erupted into being again - Eonwe a ball of lightning, Sauron a dark thrashing flame caged within it, struggling out - and the battle went on.   
  
Perhaps it would have been best, Eonwe realized, if Sauron and he had stayed at opposite ends of the battlefield. Oh, on one hand it is a selfish wish, and he knows that he is closest to Sauron in strength and best equipped to meet him, but on the other -  
  
Battle between Maiar, in shifting form and close quarters (for though Eonwe would have gained distance from him if he could, Sauron clung to him tooth or claw or tendril or hand) was an intimate affair. Their thoughts clashed as their forms did; and Eonwe could feel Sauron’s laughter shiver through his feä at the meeting of their minds.   
  
_So vulnerable, child of the air, despite your brave face._   
  
Eonwe shaped himself like a spear, driving Sauron back amongst his dark soldiers; the two of them flickered into their elf-like forms once more, but Eonwe shaped himself a difference in his. He seized Sauron’s arms and the white wings that crowned the shoulders of his armor melted and changed, and they shot into the air as his newly-formed wings caught a wind he created himself.   
  
He could have spoken aloud. Instead he pressed his forehead against Sauron’s and spoke without words, the warm hum of Valarian passing between their minds.   
  
_I know what you would seek to use against me, Mairon._   
  
The name he had just spoken, the creature he held, who had once been something far gentler and brighter than the burnished gold and black and fire that twisted in his hands and looked at him with hate-filled eyes. A maiden as bright as the sun, bruised and fearful. Many other things, other events that had strained his relationship with the Valar.   
  
_It will not avail you._  
  
And he can tell it angers Sauron, the calm mercy in his voice; for once they might have been different, but now they are so far separated they cannot _understand._   
  
And the new difference between them is that Eonwe will not pretend to understand; what lay between them, what took place now when their minds brushed against each other (the delicacy of air and warmth hardened into electricity and flame). The conflict of feeling, how his sword-hand aches for the give of Sauron’s flesh felt through his blade, and yet he wishes to gather him closer, let their lips meet as their minds had.   
  
_I am not afraid to say my memories are painful. To say that I do not understand. But you…_  
  
And as they struggle in the air and their armies look up in wonder, Eonwe leans close for perhaps a heartbeat’s time, smoothing back Sauron’s hair in what might almost seem a lover’s caress.   
  
(White meets black as his wings curve in on the path of their beat, brushing against Sauron’s leathery wings, the feathers gentle.)  
  
 _You are afraid, and you will not admit you are, and that is why you will fail._   
  
Like a lightning bolt his sword flashes, blinding those on the ground below for a moment; and Sauron, taken off-guard, falls with torn and bleeding wings.   
  
Eonwe watches calmly.    
  
(He chose to descend, in his own way, and he is not afraid any longer.) 


End file.
